The Song of Robb Stark
by renrenren3
Summary: A thousand years later, all that's left of Robb Stark is a statue and a legend that might or might not be true.


**Author's Note:** Re-posting all my old ASOIAF fic from my other account. This is embarrassingly old, it was written in 2008. A friend asked me if I could write something to go with a drawing she made of a Robb statue, which I can't link to due to ffnet's rules. She suggested a conversation between two boys about whether King Robb had really existed. I followed her prompt rather loosely, and I apologize if the story doesn't flow well. I noticed the absence of Grey Wind in the picture (haha) and tried to integrate it somehow.

-x-

The big statue in the corner of the square was old. It was chipped in places and the brass had turned almost green despite some clear efforts to keep it shining. It represented a boy sitting on his horse, with his sword raised and a look of determination on his face. Or maybe, Harren thought, it was just constipation.

The teen couldn't figure why anyone would care about such an old statue. It wasn't as if anyone, apart from the stupid people in his family, wanted to actually see it. He would have rather have gone skiing during winter break instead of having to trek across this freezing city to see museums and old septs and listen to his parents and his sister all day long. 

Harren gave the statue another bored look and quickly ducked behind the pedestal where his mum couldn't see him. He didn't even have his iRaven (an old version. Rose Inc. really charged huge sums for the newer ones) to distract him from the dullness of this place; his sister had sat on it and was really unapologetic about it.

He grabbed a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and was about to light one when he heard quick footsteps approaching. Muttering a curse he hid his hands in his pockets and pretended to be very interested in the small plaque under the statue. 

However it wasn't his mum, who was still on the other side of the square trying to decide whether a small potted Heart Tree™ ("Bring A Godswood In Your Living Room!") would have survived the journey back home. 

The newcomers, about a dozen of adults and children, were part of a guided tour. All stomping their feet and blowing on their fingers and wondering how many interesting landmarks they still had to see before stopping by the local tea room for some hot beverages and sandwiches. 

The only person who seemed to be listening to the guide's speech with genuine interest was a child of maybe eleven or twelve years. It was a shame, because the guide was a real beauty - a genuine redhead, with long curly hair and a pretty smile that didn't waver in front of the freezing wind or her audience's lack of attention. Harren judged her to be a few years his senior, maybe in her last year of college. 

He would have liked to hear her talk, even though the subject didn't interest him in the least. However that annoying child kept interrupting her with pointless questions. Shortly, his piping voice became unbearable. 

"But did he really exist?" the boy was asking for the hundredth time. 

Harren turned on his heels. "Of course not!" he snapped. "He's just a legend that people made up, like dragons and direwolves." 

"Direwolves are real!" said the kid. His reply had been so quick and so full of confidence that for a moment Harren froze and didn't know what to reply. 

"They're not," he said lamely. 

"Why not?" the child piped up again. 

Harren realized only too late that this sounded very much like a squabble between children. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then opened it a second time. 

The guide laughed, and several of her group joined in. He would have been happier to hear that pretty laugh if he hadn't been the butt of the joke. 

"Well, you're both in the right about direwolves," said the guide, looking amused. "It's certain that a long time ago there existed huge wolves that could grow bigger than a horse. They're described in many books and scrolls as rare even in their time, and a few years ago they found a whole skeleton, perfectly preserved. You'll see it in the museum this afternoon," she added for the benefit of her group.

There was a ragged chorus of cheer, moderate enthusiasm and whining at the prospect of more kilometers to cover before the day was over. 

The boy turned to Harren with a triumphant smile on his face, but the guide's next remark made him stop before saying "Told you so!" 

"Though direwolves did exist," the redhead said, "they didn't possess any of the magic powers described in legends and fairy tales. The same applies to Robb Stark - he was a very real person, a boy who became king and led his men to war, but many of the things you hear about him are probably untrue." 

Harren gave the child a smug look, but the brat didn't seem too bothered. 

"I learned a poem in class," he said instead. "It was about Robb who did awesome things and could turn into a wolf and kill all of his enemies. Only he didn't kill everyone, because he was a good king. I can't remember all of it because it was very long, though. It began with something like: 'the song of Robb Stark and his kingdom'... no... um, 'the kingdom thereof'..." 

He paused and screwed his eyes, as if trying to recall a particularly difficult lesson. 

The guide smiled. "'He won every battle / But lost all for his love'," she quoted. "I studied it in middle school too. Have you heard of it?" she added, turning to Harren. 

He shrugged. He didn't recall any poem like that, but then again, he'd never paid much attention during English. 

"I knew that tale too!" chimed in a plump middle-aged woman. "I used to find it very romantic. All those tales of love and chivalry and moonlit duels... My sweetheart used to sign all of his letters as Robb." 

She giggled, lost in some private reverie. Harren rolled his eyes. 

"The Song of Robb Stark was written over three centuries ago by a Lord Stark who claimed to be kinsman to the Young Wolf," said the guide. "That was Robb's nickname among his men," she added to the benefit of those who looked puzzled. 

The kid's mouth formed a round 'O' of surprise. "Was he really the great-great-great-grandson of that Robb Stark?" he asked. "That is, if Robb really existed," he added quickly, preceding Harren's remark. 

The guide laughed gently. "Don't worry, he really did exist. As for our poet's claim, who knows?" She shrugged. "Robb didn't leave any sons, but it's possible that our Lord Stark was the great-great-great-with-many-greats-grandson of Robb's sister. The Starks of Winterfell were a huge family, but we're talking of over a thousand years ago so it's not easy to check their family tree." 

"Winterfell," repeated an old man. "That's that place we saw the other day, wasn't it? All ruins covered with moss..." 

"It must have huge in Robb's times!" the child exclaimed, and the guide nodded. 

"It was almost a city on its own," she said. "Lord Stark makes a rather inaccurate description of the castle in his Song, but then again, he was never guilty of too much attention to details. His Robb was certainly an interesting character and through the Song he gained a certain fame, but Lord Stark distorted many important events for the sake of his own plot. In this sense, as you said earlier, Robb from the Song is just a legend," she concluded turning towards Harren. 

The teen, who had spent most of the previous minutes staring at the pretty guide without listening to her words, looked up abruptly. He felt his face turning red at being addressed directly and tried to recall what had just been said. 

"Er... yes," he muttered eventually. "I suppose." 

The plump woman gave a small sigh. "It's a bit disappointing," she commented. "It seems that kings like him exist only in songs. So Robb Stark never did all those things - the duels, the tourneys and marrying his enemy's daughter even knowing that it would be his death?" 

The kid seemed disappointed as well. "But he did exist," he insisted. "And he was a king, so he must have done something to become famous!" 

"Yes, what was he really like?" asked other people. "What's his true story?" 

The wind was still blowing across the square, but the group of tourists had finally heard something interesting and was eager to know the rest of the tale. 

However, the young guide raised her arms in a gesture of surrender. "The true story of Robb Stark..." she said. "I don't think anyone knows it. He lived in a time of war and civil unrest, and almost no written accounts of his life are left. Many historians and linguists have been tried for centuries to piece together old volumes and fragments of letters, with varying success." 

"What did they find?" Harren asked. He was in half a mind to ask the guide for her number if he got the chance. 

His effort in following the topic was rewarded with another smile and even more talking. 

"It's almost certain that Robb Stark was the eldest son of Eddard Stark, who was Hand of the King at the time. That's a bit like saying Prime Minister," she explained. "However, at that time unpopular politicians didn't get off lightly. The King died, Eddard Stark fell out of favor and was beheaded. So Robb refused to accept the new King and crowned himself King in the North." 

"That's in the Song, too," the plump woman chimed in. She seemed to consider herself a sort of expert on the subject, and seemed relieved that history followed her favorite fairy tale so closely. 

"Our poet followed Robb's life accurately for some time," the redhead conceded. "The Starks used to rule the northern part of Westeros before the Conquest - that's when the Targaryens united the Seven Kingdoms - and their title was King in the North before becoming simple Lords under the Targaryens. So, Robb was crowned King while he was still a boy. He must have been a special person, to be able to keep an army under control at his age." 

This last part was meant for the brat, who grinned widely and turned to the statue to give Robb the thumbs-up. 

"Robb did lead his army into battle, and it's said he never lost. Not even once," the guide continued. "But I don't know how many battles he actually fought. Certainly not as many as the 'hundred and hundred more' that our poet sings about." (And at this the plump woman gave a cry of disappoint.) "His reign lasted for a few months only, so he wouldn't have had the time to do all the things he's supposed to have done. And the part about him using magic and being able to turn into a giant wolf during battle is clearly fabrication." 

"So he didn't have a grey direwolf?" the child asked. 

Harren fought the urge to roll his eyes again. 

"No, he didn't," the guide said. "The Stark banner had a grey direwolf, so that's probably where the idea comes from. He couldn't have been able to control a real direwolf, and even a wolf would have been difficult to tame and bring into battle. But even without wolves or magic he was a very skilled strategist. He defeated the armies of many other experienced generals, and came very close to claim all of the North for his own." 

"What happened?" asked the boy. "Did he really die for love?" 

The guide nodded. "Yes. Our poet, Lord Stark, changed the story because he felt that Robb hadn't acted like a true hero should. Robb had promised to marry the daughter of Lord Frey in exchange for this lord's support. However he fell in love with another girl, daughter of a lesser lord, and married her instead. He apologized to Frey and said that his uncle would marry Frey's daughter instead." 

"Let's see, Robb should have married this girl but married the other one instead..." the plump woman muttered under her breath. "It's all a bit complicated." 

"So this Frey killed Robb because he broke his promise?" the child asked. 

"Yes, I'm afraid," said the guide. "But he couldn't just kill Robb, because he was the King and had guards to protect him. So Frey pretended to accept Robb's apologies and married off his daughter to Robb's uncle. Then during the wedding feast, while everyone was drunk, he killed the King and all of his guards." 

"Such a terrible story!" someone exclaimed. 

"I still prefer my Song," the plump woman said. 

The child pouted. "I hope at least this evil Frey was punished for what he did." 

But it seemed as if the pretty guide didn't know how that particular tale ended. The wind had picked up again and everyone's attention was dwindling now that the interesting part of the story was over. After arranging to meet again in a couple of hours, the tourists left the square in twos and threes directed towards cafés and souvenir shops. 

Even the guide left with nothing more than a cheerful wave of her hand, and Harren regretted not asking for her number. He also regretted not being able to smoke, since it looked as if his family was coming back for him. 

"Where have you been?" his mother asked, putting a huge potted tree in his hands. "Here, help me with this." 

"I've been here all of the time," he said weakly. "Why do I have to carry it?" 

She ignored his question, turning to the statue instead. "Oh, look, a statue of Robb Stark!" she cried happily. "I used to know The Song of Robb Stark off by heart when I was a girl. Harren, do you know Robb's story?" she asked. 

He rolled his eyes. Probably better than you, he though. But didn't say anything.


End file.
